It took more than the usual 2 hours to prepare Miss S for her night. It was much simpler for me -- I wear simple makeup that takes me 20 minutes if I fuss. Hair takes 5 minutes unless I hit a snarl. Dressing -- 10 minutes including 2 minutes of looking in the mirror and making faces at myself.
Miss S has a much more complicated time. I won't even go into the various aspects of foundation garments, padding, and hose. We will skip the careful debate about clothing. Let's go to make up. Miss S has limited experience in the application of makeup. She has, for examples, me and every girlfriend she's ever had. She also has pictures of other drag queens available via the Web, and all the same photos and video images coming through TV print media. She also has a mind of her own about what she likes and doesn't like. This occasionally choses to exhibit itself at odd moments. Although willing to take my advice and follow my lead in this unfamiliar area, she often says (and I concur) that she will not learn if she doesn't do it herself.
But she needs to practice some time other than when we are getting ready to go out. After a few false starts and experiments with eye makeup, we both agreed to this. Then there were hair problems, and then it was 9:30 pm and we were just getting ready to leave.
*sigh*. She looked beautiful, I will admit it. However, my mood was slipping. The day had already been frustrating ( a day show in which we -- again -- sold nothing) and I had eaten too much sugar for true happiness. Combine that with a constant lack of sleep during the week and...Sherri was moving into bitchy mode. So by a little after 10 we were at the Parliament House, Orlando's most well known gay night club. It was very chilly, getting to downright cold. She was off and running as soon as her feet hit the pavement.
The first bar we went into was -- predictably -- a smoke filled room. Not all areas are smoking permited, but this one was, and after 3 minutes of smoke and various rather suspicious stares, I could feel my throat constricting and my eyes beginning to burn, so I stepped outside. The club is actually several smaller clubs around a courtyard and a hotel (draw your own conclusions), each with a theme, and a theatre known for great drag shows. I found a seat in the courtyard, which was empty of most everything but men rushing here and there, and probably 30 various well lit Christmas trees surrounded by cotten "snow". Husband played go between Miss S inside and me outside. She decided to "flit" and we took a peek around. Unfortunately for me, the rooms that weren't smoke filled were pounding with music so loud it was reverberating painfully inside my chest. We adjourned to the small restaurant they have, a blissfully calm and comparatively quiet oasis, and had a very late dinner. We caught up with Miss S after various adventures and were about to see the Drag Show when we realised that not only was it 1) incredibly loud 2) smoke filled and hazy (I never did see the stage) but 3) standing room only. Instead, we slipped out and drove through Downtown Orlando to look at Christmas lights.
We returned about 40 minutes later and Husband reluctantly left me in the car. I curled up and went soundly to sleep. When I roused again, it was mostly because I could no longer hear booming music and I was freezing. Then I realized Husband was bringing Miss S to the car. Miss S was drunk.
Inebriated. Blotto. Trashed. Wasted. Crocked. You pick a word. Oh Lord and Lady.
She was deposited in the back seat and began to perform Act 2 of the Drunken Drag Queen. Act 1, I was informed as we headed home, included waylaying various large breasted women in the club with protestations of love and promises of marriage, refusing to leave, having to be dragged out under protest after the club had closed, and eventually responding only to threats. Act 2 included vomiting out the car window while driving down the highway and this conversation.
Miss S: I'm sorry I'm so drunk. I'm Italian. Italian men don't get drunk.
Me: It's ok, sweetie.
Miss S; I guess Italian women do.
Husband: How do you think Italian men get them into bed?
Miss S: I asked Victoria to marry me. She was beautiful.
Husband: One of the women in the club.
Miss S: She rejected me.
Me: Oh, that's too bad.
Miss S; My tits were bigger.
Husband: No, hers were bigger.
Miss S: She was jealous.
Miss S: I would have been her bitch so much.
Me: (tightly controlled laughter) Uh huh.
Miss S: But she rejected me. She was sooooo hot. And the other one, too.
Me: Uh huh
Miss S: And there was this guy. He bought me a drink. His name was Gary. He's a loser. He told me.
Me: (more laughter, much less controlled)
Husband: (rolling his eyes and keeping one finger on the automatic window control)
Miss S: He had a boy friend named Lars. Gary bought me a drink. He's soo not getting any, though.
Me: (sniggering through my nose in unsuccessful effort not to laugh)
Miss S: I'm sorry I"m throwing up out your window. I'm really sorry. I'll wash your car.
Me: It's ok.
Miss S: Open the window. I'm going to be unwell.
I've never been so grateful to own a car with power windows before.
Husband and I were in the strange position of trying to be caring and concerned while laughing ourselves into convulsions over the various Royal prononcements from the back seat. It is important to note that Gentlemen vomit, but Ladies are Unwell. Drag Queens, apparently, throw up.
Act 3 consisted of guiding a mostly boneless Miss S into the house, removing all the various accoutremouts of her Queendom, getting her into some sweatpants and a t shirt because she was shivering so hard, and tucking her tearful self into bed (after holding the trash can for her to vomit a little again).
I love her dearly. I was trying so hard to restrain my laughter and be comforting, to hold her water bottle for her, since she lost control of her hands, to help her lean out the car window. She's going to remember so little tomorrow and regret sooooo much. Her male Persona M is not fond of drunkenness. He's made this most succintly clear on various occasions, as he has his own interest in becoming inebriated. I am sure that, once his/her head has shrunken back to normal size and his/her mouth no longer tastes like dirty gym socks there will be a bout of personal recrimination.
The scary part is that we must get everything and every one tidy and in theri places by tomorrow afternoon. It's 5 am now. Miss S, after few bouts of crying and apologising, is out cold. Husband as just gone to sleep. I am about to. But I had to get this down first.